Post Stanford chit-chat

This is my last week at work. I am working on a client’s site unsupervised, alone and bitter. Oh, the client is going to hear an earful. Oh yes. They’re going to find out exactly what they get for our over-inflated fee, let me tell you.

So, while I’m away doing that, I decided to dust down the ol’ Predictron, and ask it to tunnel into the future. The location: England’s dressing room. The time: after the Stanford Parade.

“Hey Owais, what kind of oil do you use on your bat?”

“Well, I’m glad you asked me that, Jimmy,” responded the Middlesexian batsman, as he removed a small peppering of powder from the pin-striped lapel of his bespoke Fawns and Newham suit. “My weapon needs hours of greasing and rubbing down before you can get it to really start gushing with runs.”

“Yeah, I had a problem with the runs once” said a hairy, Northern creature. But nobody heard. As usual, he was only wearing his underpants.

A low hum began to fill the room.
“Sounds like GOD has arrived,” said Iain the Bell. He set down his Lucian Freud exersketch for 12-16 year olds. “Should we prepare the auguries?”

The seriousness of his tone settled the high-spirited group.

“Yes,” replied young Stewie “we must please him well.”

“There he is! OH! Doesn’t he look marvellous!” a young Peter Moores suggested excitably over his snack of blinis and Golden Panda shavings.
“Arriving on a Porsche–drawn carriage!” a chirped Luke Wright, “how classy.”

Indeed, the Dirty Saffer was a site to behold. Muscle-bound and stripped to the waist, standing astride a shimmering Lapis lazuli chariot, The Mighty One was propelled by four firey soft-top Porches, as topless and resplendent as the four super-models that drove them.

“Oh bugger!” exclaimed Andrew Flintoff “That reminds me I forgot to buy the new Veyron.”
“Isn’t there, like, a ten year waiting list for that?” asked some fool. It doesn’t matter who. The only important issue is that the question was asked. It was a narrative device. It adds to the drama and progresses the story. Come on, get involved.

“Well, you know how it is” shrugged the beefy all-rounder, made all the more huge by his recent acquisition of Trellis and Son - “Fine Pies for all the Family. And More.”
“Yeah.” They all chimed.

Along with the distant concert of sporty engines and whips, a trudgy, dumpy sound could be heard approaching from the stairs. The large Brazillian teak door, inset with detailed rosewood reliefs depicting historic scenes of English success, lurched open as a tired Monty Panesar stomped into the room.

“Hey Monty,” spoke Pratty Mire, “how did you get here? Catch a bus?”
All: “AAH HA HA HA”
“No, actually,” stumbled Monty. “I caught a lift from my dad. He has the new Vauxhall Insignia.”
All: “AAH HA HA HA HA”

“Hey, chaps, I forgot to tell you,” said that spinner no one has heard of from Notts “I recently bought this Swannery in Dorset or somewhere. It’s well nice. I get all my quills sourced from there now.”

“Not a bad investment in these times,” saged Paul Collingwood, “I find that my avian assets are consistently the highest performers in my portfolio.”

“Yes," said Samit or Other. "And I reserved a lovely spot for The Dropper.”

All: “AAH HA HA HA HA”